


Trusting in you

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not always what it seems like - especially in the case of one Ivan Klasnic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trusting in you

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LJ on May 12th, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> 'Arme Ritter' is a German breakfast dish, the recipe can be found [here](http://www.recipe-for.com/pancakes/arem-ritter-nche-recipe.htm). And here's a [short summary](http://www.purplehousepress.com/mio.htm) of the [book](http://images.amazon.com/images/P/3789106917.03._SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg) in question...

Ivan's laughing at Micoud's crude joke that Miro can only smile about, not used to such raucousness yet, even though he's been in the soccer world for years, but nevertheless he stays put next to Ivan, feeling his calming presence, a bulwark against uncouth and harsh elements.

It's not only their Slavic heritage and their catholicism that makes Miro like him, no, there's also something on a deeper level, something Miro can't put a name to – it's not just friendship, of that he's sure, and it's enveloping him with a quiet calm, feeling content in this moment, as unfitting it is for him, squished on a narrow bench in a German pub, the cigarette smoke irritating his eyes and the noise level almost rivaling the screams and yells of their fans in a match. He wonders if Ivan is feeling this too, this… connection.

The Croatian is now telling a funny anecdote, something that Berti Vogts apparently has said once, and the other men laugh. Then Ivan turns to Miro and smiles. "What's the matter with you, Mirek?", he asks, his voice pitched low as to not attract the attention of the other teammates, putting a warm hand on Miroslav's thigh, a friendly gesture that nevertheless manages to make the Pole flush, hoping that Ivan won't notice it in the dim light. "Er – nothing," he stutters, not daring to look up at Ivan, instead watching the broad hand making little circles on his thigh, rubbing slowly as if he were gentling a skittish animal. Then the hand's gone, but not without a little pat, and Ivan says, "Then try to enjoy yourself, Mirek, otherwise you're going to infect me with your moroseness, too," and Miro steals a quick look at Ivan's face and upon seeing the glitter in his eyes, the lips drawn up in a friendly smile, he realizes that the other striker was just saying it in jest. He returns the smile, shyly. The warmth from Ivan's hand still hovers on his thigh, like a shadow forgotten, but welcomed by himself, reassuring him.

Everything seems to be realer than real, somehow, whenever he's around Ivan, and Miroslav enjoys the heightened atmosphere in the company of the broad-shouldered man, so unlike from himself character-wise and yet he makes Miro want to place his whole trust in him, yes, that precious commodity he has entrusted only a select few before – his parents, for example.

*

The next morning Miro can't help sneak glances at Klasnic – how effortlessly he dances with the ball, how graceful he is despite his apparent bulk which isn't actually one, it's just the way Ivan is, bigger than life, not a quiet fellow like Miro himself, no. He's literally brimming with exuberant confidence in himself, not caring in the least bit what people will think, smart and graced with a dry wit.

And this touch in the pub – how often has Miro now thought back on it in the short time, how often has he imagined it again and again, reliving the feel of warmth and security, friendliness and comfort, and if there's something else in the recesses of his mind, something niggling about this touch that Miro cherishes in his mind, he doesn't pay it any heed. It's just because of Ivan, because of the way he is, he tells himself.

And then Ivan asks him to come with him and some other teammates to the pub again, probably trying to get Miro to interact more with them. He mostly engages into superficial smalltalk with them, not really having much common ground with them – not in music, nor in fashion and neither in computer games. So he's pretty much an outsider when it comes to social outings, the only common subject being the beautiful game – and Ivan apparently wants to rectify that, wants to draw Miro in more. Miro appreciates the thought for what it is, but he only joins them because Ivan will be there, _will protect me_, and he blinks, looking closely at that thought that had resurfaced suddenly – _protect him, Miroslav Klose?_ He's a grown man, a successful soccer player, a lauded striker, arguably one of Germany's best, feared, cherished – Werder Bremen paid five millions for him. Protection is one of the last things he should need.

Sitting next to Ivan again, sipping his beer – Jever Pils, not too bad –, he's still musing about this strange thought and right on cue, Ivan says, "Why so quiet, Mirek? Really, you smile far too seldom."

"Do I?", Miro replies, a bit sharper than he intended to and winces, but Ivan apparently doesn't pay his annoyance too much mind – it seems he's already pleasantly buzzy – and he says, "Well, there's soccer. You love it, don't you? And you're newlywed. Even with twins, now. That should be enough to make you smile."

Miroslav sighs. "Well…"

Ivan then nudges him, eyes half-hooded, lips quirking up in a slight smile. "Hey. Just forget about it for this evening, eh? There are worse things than having a successful soccer career, you know." Miro smiles back, nodding. Ivan does get it, after all.

As the evening progresses, it seems like Ivan set up a betting drinking game with the rest of the table and apparently alcohol does loosen his tongue more than usual, as he's now babbling nonsense all the time – which is rather funny to listen to, Miro thinks, now nursing the second glass of Jever. He does like beer now and then, but he doesn't like to get totally wasted – that one party with his friends when he graduated from school, drinking vodka behind the sheds, now that has cured him from all desire to guzzle down anything hard. He smiles slightly to himself whenever he hears the Croatian's pleasant burr, letting it wash over him.

Suddenly there's Tim at his side, bending down to him. "Look, Miro, we have to go. I'm sharing a cab with them," and here he sweeps his hand out over Fabian, Nelson and Arne, "and you'll have to go with Ivan, is that okay?"

"I can drive him," he replies, "I came here in my car." The two beer won't do any damage to his careful driving, anyway.

*

"It's Gärtnerstrasse 24," Ivan says, "do you know where it is? It's in-"

"Yes, I do know," Miroslav says, "I drove you home once, remember?"

"Oh, yes, you did. Good that you still remember it, eh? Actually, it's good for me. Very good. In fact, it's splendid. I…"

Miro has to smile. Ivan's funny when he's sober, and even funnier – although he makes less sense then – when he's drunk. He quickly looks at him, navigating his car through the almost non-existent traffic on Bremen's streets – Ivan's still rambling, something about his car that he is apparently very proud of and that he couldn't take tonight, because he knew he would get wasted again, and "wohoo, I'm _so_ wasted, I never thought I could be that wasted again, I love being wasted, don't you, too? No, you don't, you're always the sensible one, aren't you, Mirek?" and there's this smile again, quirkyfriendly, and Miro chuckles, nodding.

"Like I thought, yes. You're a good lad, Mirek, offering to drive a very wasted Ivan home who's rambling too much and will probably chew your ear off before he's there…"

And then they're there, and Miro shuts off the engine. He gently interrupts Ivan's new rant with a "We're there, Ivan. At your home."

"Oh? Already? Well… thank you. For driving. And all. And listening." Ivan doesn't make any attempts at getting out, though, he just sits there and smiles at Miroslav, contently.

"Ivan? Don't you want to get out?", Miro asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Out? Eh… I think I can't. My legs are rather wobbly, so I would need help. Very much. A lot. And my wife isn't there. She's gone. And I'm alone."

Miroslav shrugs his shoulders and gets out of the car, walking around to Ivan's door. "Come, I'll help you." As he reaches in to get a good grasp around Ivan's shoulders, it seems that the Croatian has spoken the truth – when he's really wasted, he's still able to talk, but his movement seems to be hampered a lot. He can barely right himself up and Miroslav has to hoist him up, slipping his arm around his ribcage. He shuts the car door with his foot and closes the doors with a click on his car key – god bless technology – and tries to walk a straight line to Ivan's house door which isn't helped very much by Ivan's determination to lean on him a _lot_.

He's flushed when they've finally made it up the four stairs to the door and Ivan tells him to push the button to open the main door – he lives in a five-storey home and his flat is on the first floor, or so the scrawled 'Klasnic' says on the bell line-up. There's a hidden step behind the door and Miro overlooks it, but just _almost_, and so they stumble into the hallway and Miro's almost-fall is halted by the wall, and Ivan, who's still clinging to him, follows his lead, so to speak, and thus Miroslav gets his air squeezed out of him by a rather heavy Croatian squashing him.

Ivan feels warm, which is a nice contrast to the cold stone wall at his back. So warm and heavy, but it's a good kind of heavy, not oppressing, but a comfortable bulk. And then there's a hand on his side – it was there before, but it hadn't been moving yet, but now it does, rubbingstroking, and Ivan doesn't make any attempts to release Miro. Instead, it even feels as if he's trying to get closer to Miro, pressing his body against him, his breath hot on Miro's neck and involuntarily, he feels little goosebumps spreading out down to his back, making him shiver. And then there's the other hand, splashed on his hip, squeezing slightly.

"You feel so good, so beautiful, so good, yes, good,…" and Miro's just about to raise his hands to Ivan's shoulders in order to push him away, gently, chalking it up to Ivan's drunkenness and the absent wife, when he feels Ivan's mouth on his neck; hotwetwarm – was that a kiss?

"So strong, yes, and lean, and you're so handsome, oh god yes,…"

Now that's not what you'd tell your _wife_, Miroslav thinks, surprised. He has seen her once, and she didn't look anything like that. Ivan continues to whisper sweet praises into Miro's ear and then there's his thigh between Miro's, and his hand's managed to pull out the shirt out of Miro's jeans and the Pole is helpless against the assault of sensations from all directions – the hothard something in Ivan's trousers, pressing insistently against Miro's hip, and Ivan's shifting slightly, and suddenly Miro realizes that he's hard, too, and then he hisses as Ivan's hand touches his ribs, warmsweaty touch spreading little shudders like ripples on water in all directions, and he's shaking, and it feelsso_good_.

Ivan's murmuring hotly, "I've watched you on the pitch, for so long, how you're handling the ball, so graceful, your thighs flexing, your feet dancing, and everyone is racing after you, but you're always on top of the game, so sexy,…"

So it is another team mate than Ivan has the hots for – a _man_.

"Miroslav…"

_Miroslav?_ That can't be; Ivan can't be meaning him, not him. Miro's mind is still reeling with the implications of what this might mean; but there it is, the sound of his name being whispered, breathily, with a underlying hint of desire still reverberates through his mind, and Ivan's insistent touches – his hand has now pulled Miro's shirt up to his shoulders and both of his hands are roaming his torso – are setting Miro's body and his mind on fire and he moans, his hands feebly settling on Ivan's shoulders, grasping instinctively, and then their mouths touch – was it Ivan, or was it himself initiating it? Too late; way too late now.

The taste of beer, and Ivan must've had a pizza or something with peperoni beforehand, and there's still something uniquely Ivan, something that he can't recognize, and he's suddenly immersed in the smoke from the pub, along with the aftershave Ivan always uses, something cleansharp – it's as if he's drowning in Ivan, and everything that is Miroslav disappears.

*

The ghostly white shimmer from the street light outside shines through the stained glass door, alightning the two men in a passionate embrace next to the letter boxes, and it's their luck that almost all neighbors – save the family on the fourth floor who's on holiday now – are in their beds now, preoccupied with more important things than to go outside, and moans are silenced by hothungry kisses, and then one of them breaks away, breathing heavily, looking at the other one leaning against the wall, who has the eyes closed. He leans in and whispers something in his ear.

"I want to have you, Miro my Miro, I _want_ to… but not here, in my _bed_, Mirek –" and Miroslav looks straight at Ivan, his eyes darkened to the point where they're almost entirely black, heavy from newlyfound desire, and he nods, slowly, feeling strangely detached. He has never felt anything like this before, not this dizzyshivering want, his aching cock straining against his jeans. There's something truly intoxicating about being with a _man_, someone of his own strength, a match in every sense. Being with _Ivan_.

He lets go of Ivan and the latter turns, but not before taking his hand, interlacing their fingers, and they hurry towards the stairs, Miro quickly reaching out before Ivan stumbles over the last step, and then they're at Ivan's door, and Ivan's against him, again, his breath hot on Miro's cheek, his hand sliding up to Miro's behind, rubbinggrasping, and Miro can't help shuddering at the manifold sensations this single touch is evoking, the lurid – _despicable_ \- images of what they must look together like that, but then Ivan's whispering again, murmuring, "so good, Miroslav, you're so strong…" and Miro can't bear it anymore and he silences Ivan's ramblings with a quick kiss and suddenly Ivan's hand is in his hair and the kiss deepens, hotwetwanting.

"Where are the keys, Ivan?" Miro hisses, breaking free from the insistent kiss.

"Keys? My trousers… the front," Ivan says, but not making any move to rectify the situation, just staring at him, breathing heavily. Daring him to make the next step.

Miro bites his lip, suddenly feeling confused – _you're not a homosexual, you're married, you have kids, how dare you, how dare you, how DARE you_ – and he knows that his last get-out has to be right here and right now, and then Ivan's hand is on his cheek, warm, his thumb smoothing over his cheekbone, and Miro involuntarily leans into the touch, his eyes closing, only concentrating on Ivan, and then Ivan's mouth is on his again, just a slow press of lips against lips, desire held in check. "Miro my Miro," he whispers, smiling slightly and the understanding in his eyes is more than Miro can bear, and he, at first hesitant, then getting bolder, slides a hand down Ivan's front, fingertips brushing accidentally over the hot bulge. Ivan hisses, his hand sliding down to grasp Miro's ass, and he squirms, his hand caught in between their groins, but then he feels the edgy contours of the keyring and inserts his hand into the tight trouser pocket, fumbling around and all the while Ivan's massaging his ass in an rhythm that stokes the low fire in Miro's loins far too quickly, and then he's finally got the keys in his sweaty hand, and Ivan nibbles at his neck, quicksearing bites, and Miro shudders, it has never been this good, never_never_…

And then Ivan's taken the keys and, barely swaying, inserts the keys into the lock and then they're inside and Ivan falls back against the door. Miro is in front of Ivan, looking at him with wide eyes, knowing that this is _it_. Ivan smiles at him, slowly, shrugging out of his soft leather jacket, letting it fall, and there's a glint in his eyes, and Miro thinks, 'he's not that drunk…', but then Ivan attacks him, erasing any more thoughts, instead imprinting desire and want and strength on him and Miro is again left helpless in face of that assault, moaning, and there's a metallic clatter as the keys fall to the floor.

Clothes rustle, and Ivan's very adept at popping buttons, and in no time they are naked from the waist up, and then they embrace, hardhungrily, and it's so different and yet so… so _right_ that Miro sighs, wanting to stay in this embrace forever, feeling Ivan's flat muscled planes against his, flexing slightly, the double beating of their hearts mirrored, and Ivan's lips are slowly mapping his neck, firmwarm presses, stilling the throbbing vein, his warm hands sliding up and down Miro's sides, fingers rubbing.

Their groins are aligned, a nest of hothardwant, and then there's Ivan's tongue again, plundering his mouth, the mood having changed in a millisecond from tenderness to desire, pure. "Beautiful, how beautiful you are, Mirek, oh, how much I want you, right _now_," and Ivan slips a finger into the crack of Miro's ass, rubbing gently, not daring to go lower, and then his hand is on the front of Miro's jeans, and then they're pooling around his feet in no time. Miro's letting it happen, or maybe he wriggled his hips a bit, too, to help their descent, and he steps out of them readily, chucking off his shoes at the same time, shuddering slightly – because of the cold, or because of what's going to happen? He doesn't know, and then Ivan releases him, stepping out of his trousers – and out of his briefs, too, and Miro gulps.

"Come to bed."

And it's eerie, the whole scene alighted by the palecold moon: the tumble of limbs on the striped bed linens, the white briefs pulled off a tanned leg, dangling from the ankle until they're shrugged off, moans and grunts echoing in the big room, glistening sweat on bodies, mouths clashingmissing, nibbling on flesh, hardround pebble-like nipples being caressedtwisted, sucked off, and hands disappearing in between bodies, and then the rain starts, washing over the unfolding scene, blurring it.

Miro's building up, shuddering, his heart beating wildly, feeling Ivan sucklicking his throbbing pulse, all over him, covering him, and it's too much… and Ivan closes his mouth over Miro's, stilling the clattering teeth, his tongue tracing the outline of Miro's lips, not moving – except for his cock hot in the hollow of Miro's hipbone, his leanmuscled thighs a welcome weight against Miro's own achyjittery ones. He strokes Miro's sweaty strands away from his face, gently licking a way from Miro's mouth to his ear, "Miro my Miro", and it's so soft Miro almost misses it, and then Ivan raises up, sliding against Miro, up, looking at him, his lips wet, and raindrops are hitting the big window, alighting and darkening alternately in the eternal moonlight, painting him in streaksdropsswathes, glittering in his dark eyes and Miro's overcome by an eerie calm that isn't actually a calm, in face of what's going to break loose soon, and –

"You're special, Miro, you are," Ivan whispers intently, spreading his legs, tangling them with Miro's, reaches down to take his right hand, pulling it up over his head, and then he's kissing Miro again, and Miro already has craved him, and reciprocates readily, the faint flavor of cheap beer almost unnoticeable now, tasting only Ivan, and he bucks up against him, desperate for the long-awaited release. Suddenly hell breaks loose, Ivan rutting against Miro, exerting all his strength, pressing down, their cocks sliding along each other hotwetfaster_faster_, and it's nothing like anything Miro could ever have imagined, and the build-up is irresistible and his eyes are closed, scrunched up against the fire burning in Ivan, but it consumes him nevertheless, flames lickingburning all over him, and he screams, and it's –

Slowly collecting his shatteredspreadlost senses, he feels Ivan's hothardness against his now limp cock. He spreads his legs, somehow sensing on some deeper level what's expected of him now, and he's offering it up to Ivan. It's not a homosexual thing, it's just something between them, a man thing, after all, and well, it's _Ivan_. The one he trusts. He swallows, looks up into Ivan's half-lidded eyes, the desire plainly visible in his expression.

"Miro my Miro," Ivan breathes, gently, and then he reaches down, adjusts himself and suddenly his cock is slipping in between Miro's ass cheeks, a hot poker, and Miro wriggles, partly out of a desire to make it go away and partly because he wants to feel it, to know it. It isn't entirely uncomfortable, but… and then it is there, but not there, it slides past, and back, and Ivan's bulk is holding him down, a hand pressing down on his hip, graspingsliding, and Miro jerks, accidentally squeezing his ass cheeks and thus Ivan's cock, and a loud moan rips through the charged air, and Ivan arches up, thrusting forward again, into the tight warmth, and again, and Miro finds a rhythm with the squeezes and slowly his cock is getting hard, too, furthered by the hotslidingthrobbing of Ivan's cock, their sweaty thighs' friction, and Miro's hands are digging into Ivan's back, holding him there, closer_closer_…

Suddenly Ivan goes still; and then there's something wetwarm hitting Miro's lower back, and then a strangled cry escapes Ivan's lips, coming from somewhere deep inside him, ripped from himself, and then he collapses onto Miro as if he got hit by lightning, all the strain and desperation vanishing in a millisecond, leaving behind just sweatywarmloose muscles.

Soon his breath straightens out, signaling to Miro that Ivan is asleep now, and he almost wants to shake him, wake him up and demand an explanation for what just went down, demand answers for questions impossible to ask, just demand… yes, what? He doesn't even know himself. Sighing, he slowly slides out from under Ivan, wincing at the wet spot and gets up, shaking his head slightly to get the faint residues of orgasm-induced dizziness out. The wooden floor feels cold to his bare feet, and he feels slightly ridiculous and very guilty as he opens door after door, searching for the bathroom.

Finally he's found it, and attending to his bodily needs and cleaning himself up, he squints at the glaring light. _You'd never have thought you'd end up in bed with Ivan yesterday, or even some hours ago_, he thinks, hitting the flush and steps to the wash basin. Splashing his face, he grasps for the towel next to him and dries off his face, still looking the same. Same old, same nice, same quiet Miroslav. Not.

He takes the towel with him back to the bedroom, having dipped it in water a bit, and when he opens the door, the smell of sex hits him full force. Ivan's still lying in the same position he left him in, spread-eagled, the rainstreaks painting him in surreal tiger stripes and leopard spots, looking like an otherworldly animal. Miro approaches him, bending over to wipe off the worst off the bed and Ivan, turning him over gently, without the latter waking up or even startle. When he's done, he's just about to turn away, intent on disappearing from Ivan's flat so he hasn't to face him in the morning, when Ivan's hand closes over his.

"Stay, Mirek." And as Miro doesn't do so immediately, he watches Ivan's mouth turn up in a small smile, barely noticeable in the pale light, but it's there, and he says, eyes still closed, "Miro my Miro. Stay with me."

And then he does so, climbing over Ivan to avoid the wet spot, and then Ivan's prodding him, pulling the sheets out from under them and then the strongmuscled arm envelops Miro in the soft sheets and the hand palms his heart, warmsure. Miro can't help a content sigh escape his lips, covering Ivan's hand with his own, and he smiles when he hears Ivan mumbling, "Mirek…" into his neck.

*

The bed's empty; but not wholly empty, as a faint warmth is still lingering that is not his own, and Miroslav squints at the glaring sunlight, almost blinding him, and he's confused as to where he is; the bed isn't his own, and there isn't the slightest hint of the perfume Sylwia always wears and he's sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

"Did you sleep well?"

Ivan. And suddenly Miro _knows_, remembers everything, staring at Ivan, clad in white tight boxers, leaning on the door frame, smiling at him. He can just nod, realizing that this is, actually, not a dream at all, but the reality, and he doesn't know what to feel, what to think, what to say.

"The shower's free, here are towels –" and two big white, very fluffy towels hit the lower end of the bed, "just feel at home." And with these words Ivan is gone and then Miro, still sitting on the bed, not having moved, hears a cheery, upbeat melody floating through the air – Ivan must've switched on the radio – and is that actually Ivan singing along? It sounds horrible, and Miro can't help smiling faintly, remembering Ivan's attempts at singing with Arne and Fabian in the showers. He throws back the sheets and snatches one of the towels, wrapping it around his hips. There – now he doesn't feel as exposed. He walks out into the hall, Ivan's off-key singing much louder here. In the bathroom, Miro steps into the shower, hoping that a cold shower will clear his muddled mind somewhat. It does help a bit, but as he's got to borrow some of Ivan's shower gel – Hugo, it is – he can't help remembering how Ivan smelled, how he tasted and, most importantly, how he _felt_. Determinedly, Miro shakes his head, but he can't help recalling the most lurid images – Ivan above him, breathing heavily, grasping his hand tightly, their lower bodies a tangle of want and desire, sweatyslick, and now he can't attribute the rising flush of his body to the cold water solely anymore.

Drying himself off, he takes a good look around the bathroom, noticing details that escaped him last night – like the toilet articles of Ivan's wife, lotions and make-up and perfume and the surreal unreality of everything that went down yesterday night catches up with him: did he really sleep with another man, and what's worse, did he really enjoy it, did he want to do it _again_, with _Ivan_, and now Miro's blushing fiercely, his body giving him the answer before his mind can do it. It's wrongwrongwrong_asin_, and he knows he will go to hell for it, for desiring another man's body; but really, when it's Ivan, how can one help not desiring him?

He has caught other teammates admiring Ivan, in the showers or on the pitch, and their eyes were glinting with something undenifiable that Miroslav can classify as subconscious want now, having seen it in Ivan's eyes himself that very night, directed at _himself_.

Not wanting to tardy any more, he goes back to the bedroom and is surprised to find the bed made, his clothes in a tidy heap on it. He puts them on, feeling more and more secure with every layer clothing him, and when he's slipping on his shoes, planning to disappear quietly from Ivan's flat, he hears Ivan's voice calling out, "Mirek! What do you want for breakfast? Scrambled eggs, omelette or 'Arme Ritter'? These are the only things I can do well!"

He winces, realizing that his plans are futile now, that he has to face Ivan. He smoothes the sheets out, erasing any evidence of him being there.

Ivan's standing at the cooker, humming along to the radio, still in his boxers. He's glorious in the sunlight, and Miro can just stare, recalling every contour of his body, how it felt under his exploring fingers, pressing against him, shifting against him. The coffee maker pings, and Ivan turns, smiles at Miro. "Cups are there in the shelf – you want coffee, no? I remember that from the team meetings, so… sit down there, do whatever you want, okay?" and he carries the steaming coffee can over to Miro, setting it down in front of him, "Sugar, milk?" and when Miro just nods, blushing, he crosses over to the cupboards along the one side of the kitchen, bends down, searching for the items, and Miro is treated to a desirable view of Ivan's behind, and he has to avert his eyes quickly, filling up a cup with hot steaming coffee. Sugar and milk appear on the table as well, along with a spoon, and Ivan's back to the pan on the cooker, cracking eggs into it with one hand, "scrambled eggs okay with you?"

Miro nods again, mixing his coffee just the way he likes it, a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar, and he sits down at the table, nipping slightly at the cup, hissing when the first hot drop of coffee hits his lips. He doesn't know what to say, he hasn't even said 'good morning', hasn't even asked how Ivan is, though judging from the whistling he seems to be in a very good mood. He feels awkward and uncomfortable, and so he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind: "Am I special?"

Oh god. Of all the things he could have said, this is rock-bottom. Even lower than rock-bottom – and he's blushing furiously now, and then Ivan's stepping up to him, and he doesn't dare to look up, wishing that the words hanging between them would disappear magically, and he has been a good man up until last night, so God could grant him that one favor, no?

"Yes, you are, Miro my Miro," Ivan says, and Miro doesn't have to see his face to know that he's smiling, "after all, you're my Miro."

"Why do you call me that? Miro my Miro?", Miro asks, still blushing.

"It's the title of my favorite childhood book, 'Mio mein Mio'." At seeing Miro's puzzled look, Ivan chuckles. "It's a fairytale about an orphan boy who finds out that he's actually a prince, in the land of Faraway and that his real name is Mio – and that, according to the legends, he has to fight the evil knight Kato who has a heart out of stone. I loved it."

Miro smiles slightly. "It sounds beautiful."

"And so are you, Miro my Miro," and Ivan leans over, and their lips meet, warmsoft, coffee and toothpaste mixing, tongues stroking each other, and Ivan's arm is sneaking around his middle, pulling him up from his seat, and then they're standing in the dust-glittery sunshine, kissing, softlazysweet, and Miro feels as if he's _home_.

*

Rows and rows of books around him, the slight hint of coffee from the little café in the back of the book shop making Miroslav smile slightly. He steps up to the information desk and the woman smiles up at him. "Are you looking for something?"

Miro nods shyly. "Yes, a book – by the name of 'Mio mein Mio'."


End file.
